He Seemed Nice
by venomistress
Summary: Conversation between Haytham and Tori.


Summer 1778

I stood at the end of the pier, looking out over the ported ships. Their skeleton crew milled about the decks like mindless puppets, unaware of the events around them. A breeze rustled the lapels of my shirt and I hugged myself despite the warmth the summer wind held. The moon shone brightly overhead as I stood on tired feet. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. It didn't help with the discomfort of having stood in the same spot for the last few hours. But I remained. I refused to allow myself rest until my task was complete.

My patience was finally rewarded when I heard the scarcely audible footfalls behind me. I let out a breath I'd been holding all day in sigh of relief. My note had been so vague that I hadn't been sure he would come. I had not even signed it out of fear that he would refuse if he'd know it was me that called the meeting.

Yet, he had come.

I listened harder. To my surprise, I heard no other footsteps but his. Even if he had chosen to come, I had not expected him to heed my advise and do so alone. He was so careful. But I suppose he thought he could handle any threat himself. I considered the possibility that the conceited opinion he had of himself was well earned and felt an ounce of fear at his presence.

I didn't turn as he stopped a yard behind me. I relished the salty sea air that filled my nostrils with each breath as I waited for him to speak.

He let me wait as long as his own patience allowed.

"Good evening, Victoria." The formal, polite greeting held nothing but solid indifference. As with most of our conversations, it betrayed nothing of his feelings toward me. Be they positive or negative, his tone was emotionless. "I must admit my surprise that you are the one who sent the letter. I was under the impression you had no desire to see me again."

I let out a wry chuckle. Contacting Haytham had only been a fleeting thought at first. Even I was surprised that I had gone through with it. I had written the note and discarded it a dozen times before I had finally given it to a courier. Even then I had considered backing out. Yet, here I was. And here he was.

"So was I," I stated.

I heard a faint sound of acceptance and a light step as he repositioned himself. "And what changed your mind?"

I took a deep breath and let it out. I had rehearsed what I would say and how I would say it many times while I waited. But now, faced with reality of the situation, I could remember none of it.

I stared out at the placid waters that reflected the twinkling stars wetly.

"How many ships do you see?" I asked him.

I didn't need to turn to sense the confusion from Haytham. Or to know that he was frowning at the back of my head. It seemed as good a starting point as any, so I waited for him to answer.

He sighed deeply at my prolonged silence. "Four," he answered.

"I see eight," I told him.

Haytham let out a huff. There may have been a touch of amusement is the noise. Or it could have only been irritation. "You're counting boats."

"What's the difference?" I asked him.

"A ship has a mast," he answered in boredom.

I turned around and looked at him. The only difference between the conversation now and the similar one eighteen years ago was age and knowledge. I now knew who he was. What he was. He was a Templar. A Bad Guy.

"And a captain," I reminded him.

He nodded once. There was a distant look in his eye. "And a captain."

"But even boats have captains," I contradicted. Haytham watched me as I took a few steps toward him. His left arm was held at his side. No doubt ready to trigger the mechanism that released his hidden blade if my actions proved hostile. "Even if you are the sole occupant of a vessel, you plot it's course. You control it's speed. You decide it's actions. That makes you the captain. Doesn't it?"

Haytham relaxed as I halted my approach. He glanced at the crafts in thought then shrugged. "I suppose so."

I'm sure he knew as well as I did that the ships and boats were only metaphors. Everyday examples that could be manipulated and abused for the sake of argument. What baffled him was the actual meaning of the conversation.

"However," I continued, "boats are limited in their capabilities by the conditions of the sea and the impact of weather. A ship can endure such hardships easily if commanded by a cleaver mind."

"A valid point," Haytham said, as his eyes searched me. "But what has made you entertain such thoughts?"

I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and lowered my eyes. Haytham's boots were polished and neat. They showed only small signs of wear on the heel and toe. A nautical wind blew and I let it hit my face.

"I don't think I'm worthy of being captain anymore," I said.

"Oh," Haytham said, drawing my attention back to him. "You've come to me for guidance. I thought you preferred to remain neutral."

I shook my head and assumed an sense of strong will that I didn't completely feel. "I am not committing myself to your cause, Haytham. I don't consider the Templars any more righteous than the Assassins. All the fighting is never going to amount to anything. Neither side will ever truly win."

Haytham regarded me with a cool stare. "That we are not enemies does not make us allies, Victoria."

"I know."

"Then, please, refrain from further stalling and tell me why you wanted to see me."

I looked at him as he watched me with impatience. I suddenly felt the weight of everything constricting my chest and making it difficult to breath. Tears accumulated in the corners of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks as I tried to blink them away. Haytham frowned at me.

"I'm pregnant," I told him.

Haytham's response was not one I had considered in all my wondering. I had not known what to expect when I gave him the news, but his inaction and long silence was worse than anything I could have imagined. He was expressionless for so long that I thought he hadn't heard me. I didn't relish the idea of being forced to repeat myself. I wasn't even sure that my voice could form the phrase a second time.

Finally, Haytham responded. "Does Connor know?"

I shook my head. I had not seen him since the child's conception. I'd only been back in New York three days. I wasn't sure where Connor was or how to find him. I honestly wasn't sure I wanted to tell him. Not because I was angry with him or afraid he would deny it being his. I knew he would want to do the right thing. To him, that would be marrying me. Though I cared for Connor, I could not see my life with him.

"I will not be your messenger," Haytham said.

"I'm not asking you to be."

"Alright, then."

His thought remained unclear to me, hidden beneath calm features. I thought of how much alike he and his son were. Both were dedicated to their cause and unwilling to see any way but their own. Yet their actions were so drastically different form one another. Connor, at least, had the ability to show compassion when he felt compelled to do so. Haytham preferred to keep any bit of sympathy he might have felt to himself.

I wondered which of those qualities this child would inherit.

"What is it that you expect of me?" Haytham asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Very well," he stated. There was acceptance in his voice. The part of grandfather was one he had not requested or wanted. "I wish you luck with...everything."

It was only a polite expression that held no sincerity, but I found it comforting none the less. Haytham was ready to depart and forget about our meeting. I could have very easily let him go. Instead I found myself driven by doubt and weeping as I closed the distance between us and buried my face in his chest. My fists clinched his coat like those of a frightened child.

I heard a faint click over the sound of my own sobs. But I didn't let go. I only held tighter and waited to see if he would kill me. Apparently, Haytham realized my attack was not one of hatred or anger because he let his blade recede a second later. He was still for a moment, without speaking or moving. If not for the sound of his heart beating in my ear, I might have thought I were hugging a statue.

I'm not sure what had made me think that a man like him would tolerate being pawed on like a cat with a ball of yarn. All coherent thought had left me. My mind was only a jumbled mess that could only comprehend fear at that time. Not fear of dying or even of living. But of becoming a mother. I was scared of being responsible for another life.

I felt a a strong hand pat my shoulder softly. When Haytham spoke, his voice was an octave kinder than before. "I would imagine it's only natural to feel insecurities in such a situation."

My response was only to nuzzle closer to him. He smelled like warm cider and I found the scent to be oddly comforting. Haytham consented to consoling me by putting his arm around my waist and rested his chin on the top of my head. I relaxed within his embrace and felt my tears begin to subside.

"This is your purpose in life, Victoria," he told me quietly. "I am certain you will find the strength to see it through."

I stood listening to the muffled combination of his pulse and breathing and found it difficult to dislike him. He was capable of showing kindness in some form, at least. The fact that he cared even that much made me mourn his inevitable death. I did not doubt that Connor would eventually kill him. The thought made fresh tears fill my eyes. Though he could be harsh and cruel and his misguided sense of honor blinded him from seeing the pain he caused others, Haytham could also be compassionate and understanding. I was sure he was even capable of loving others – even his son – in his own way. He seemed sincere and honest in his condolences.

"He seemed nice," I whispered to myself.


End file.
